Page 105 of The Prodigal

Eden

Iwake up with a backache.

More importantly, I wake up in Remington’s arms—in thebed.

Not the closet.

For the first time, Remington stayed in bed all night.

Something shifted between us last night. It was more than just making a sex tape and getting revenge. It was more than just claiming each other. A bond was sealed against that window—a promise spoken without words.

Our actions spoke the truth: we found love with each other, and nothing—not even revenge—will tear us apart.

Rolling over, I turn and find Remington asleep, his cheeks flushed, like he’s spent too much time out in the sun.

“Good morning,” I whisper softly, kissing his lips.

For a moment, I’m impressed with myself. It looks like I managed to fuck the dark lord of sarcasm into a coma. But then I notice it’s not just his cheeks that are flushed. His whole body is feverish. “Remington!”

I yank the blankets back and shake his shoulder. “Remington, open your eyes!” My heart pounds in my chest, fear settling in my stomach then climbing its way up my throat. “Remington,” I cry. “Open your eyes right now!”

His chest rises with labored breaths, but he remains sleeping while burning up with fever.

Does he have the flu? Did he get sick because he sat outside so long in his chair before I pulled him inside? I have no idea. Not that he can’t catch a cold, but this feels different—like it’s more than just a cold.

I try shaking him once more, and when he doesn’t respond, I jump up and dart to the bathroom, wetting bath towels like I’ve seen on TV shows to cool him down.

“Remington.” I drape the towels over his body. “Wake up. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”Please tell me you’re okay.

“Eden,” he finally murmurs from the dead. “It’s too early for your drama.” His fingers find mine. “Save it for after my morning cigarette.”

I almost smother him with one of the towels. “You have a fever and weren’t waking up! I’m not being dramatic. I’m scared you’re sick.”

Remington drags in a breath and groans. “I’m not sick. I’m tired from washing the window with your ass last night.”

At least he’s still charming when he’s sick.

“Now, who’s being dramatic?” I snap. “I’m serious. Should we call an ambulance?”

That question seems to wake him up. “No!” His eyes flash open. “No doctors.”

Technically, paramedics aren’t doctors, but I’m sure his hateful statement includes all medical personnel. Thank you, Congressman Fuckhead, for destroying his faith in medicine.

“Okay. What about a fever reducer?” I negotiate. “I could buy some at the drugstore down the street.”

Unlocking our hands, he rolls away from me. “The drugstore doesn’t carry meds that treat pussy withdrawals.”

Oh, my gosh, he’s so getting stabbed when he feels better.

“So, unless you want to enable my pussy addiction, I suggest you hush and let me sleep it off.”

You know what? I’m going to leave his sarcastic ass alone, but only because I want to scream at him. And that would not be a very loving thing to do. “Okay,” I surrender. “I’ll let you sleep.”

He mumbles something that sounds like… I don’t even know what it sounds like. But I’m taking it as anI love you, and yes, please take my car to the drugstore to pick up a fever reducer for my stubborn ass.

But before I do as he says, I give him one last look, watching as he trembles under the cool towels, looking very, very sick. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am being dramatic. He could literally have the flu and will feel better in a few days. But anxiety swirls in my gut, and my gut is never wrong. Something is wrong with my Adam. And that something is being hidden behind sarcasm.

Untying the St. Michael pendant around my neck, I place it around Remington’s and tie it back. He may need to sleep off this illness, but a quick prayer and St. Michael resting on his chest, can’t hurt either.

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